Chapter 7 #2
“This magnificent Victorian was built in 1887 by—”
Baby Ella chooses that exact moment to start fussing, because apparently, my daughter has impeccable timing when it comes to interrupting historical lectures—and don’t think for a minute that Mackenzie isn’t glaring at me because of it.
But I recognize the hunger cries immediately. “I’ll just step out for a few minutes,” I whisper to Mom, who nods and waves me away while Georgie continues scanning the room for potential romantic prospects.
I’ll stay with the snacks, Sherlock is quick to announce. I mean, I’ll keep an eye on Georgie.
Oh please, Fish muses. We know you’ll be doing both and not well either.
I push the stroller toward the ornate hallway, looking for a quiet spot to nurse Ella, when I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Jennilee Holly is standing by an open window, smoking a cigarette as if her life depends on it.
For a split second, we just stare at each other—her with the cigarette halfway to her lips, me with my mouth hanging open like I’ve just discovered Santa Claus robbing a bank.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Jennilee starts frantically trying to put out the cigarette, fanning the air dramatically while looking around like she’s searching for a place to hide the evidence. She finally stubs it out on a Christmas cookie, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so desperate.
“Well, butter my biscuits!” she gasps, her perfect Southern composure finally cracking. “You caught me red-handed!”
The accent gets thicker the more flustered she gets, and I can’t help but shed a little laugh.
“Please don’t worry,” I say. “I’m pretty sure smoking is still legal. Besides, it’s your home. You do as you wish. I was just looking for a place to feed the baby.”
Jennilee sheds an easy laugh herself, and just like that, it’s as if someone flipped a switch and she’s back to charming hostess mode.
“Honey, I just needed a little privacy myself—all that entertain’ can be exhaustin’!
Why don’t we get you somewhere more comfortable for feeding that precious little angel? ”
She leads me to an intimate tea room adjoining the main hall, decorated with vintage Christmas tea sets and delicate ornaments. Comfortable chintz chairs are arranged perfectly for conversation, and the door provides privacy from the tour group’s enthusiastic oohing and ahhing.
“There now,” Jennilee says, settling into the chair across from me as I get Ella situated for nursing. “Much better than trying to manage in a crowd.”
For the first time since I’ve met her, Jennilee’s perfect hostess facade slips just slightly. The cigarette moment has created an unexpected intimacy between us, like we’re co-conspirators in some minor smoke-related crime instead of potential adversaries in a major one.
Baby Ella latches on happily, making those little satisfied sounds that suggest she’s perfectly content to provide me with the perfect excuse for an extended private conversation with my suspect.
We’re basically the perfect crime-solving duo, with the exception that she’s just a little over a foot tall.
“You have such a beautiful home,” I say, settling back in the chair. “That wedding portrait is absolutely stunning.”
Jennilee’s smile brightens, but there’s something almost fierce about it now. “Thank you, honey. David and I had the most magical wedding day. There’s nothing like marrying the love of your life.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say with a sigh.
She talks about it like it was yesterday, Fish mewls, but that dress in the picture looks like it’s from another decade.
She’s right. It looked vintage, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have worn it yesterday. Vintage is all the rage.
“He must be so proud of what you’ve accomplished with the Christmas decorating,” I continue. “Will he be back soon from his business trip?”
“Oh no, David is always traveling for work. Import-export keeps him very busy. I’ll be lucky to see him just in time for Christmas, if he makes it at all.”
“Oh wow,” I say.
I’d be heartbroken to spend Christmas without Jasper. In fact, it would ruin the entire month for me knowing we’d have to spend it apart.
Ella makes happy nursing sounds, giving me time to study Jennilee’s expression.
She seems so genuinely friendly—I’ll give her that.
But there’s something about the way she holds her shoulders, the slight tension around her eyes, that suggests the perfect Southern belle routine might be covering up some serious cracks in the foundation.
Okay, fine. I’m at the point in my life where I’m basically suspicious of just about anyone. And with the murder rate as high as it is in Cider Cove, with good reason.
“Well, it must be lonely for you during the holidays with him gone so much,” I wince as I say because I feel bad pointing out the obvious.
“Oh, not at all!” she says quickly. “I keep myself plenty busy with decoratin’ and... well, work at the chocolate shop keeps me occupied.”
There it is. The connection to Balthasar Thornfield.
Now we’re getting somewhere, Fish purrs from her cozy spot in my coat.
“Oh my word,” Jennilee coos. “I just saw your sweet cat poking her head out. For a second, I thought maybe she was one of those ugly sweaters everyone wears around the holidays, but we both know there’s not an ugly thing about her.”
“This is Fish. She loves to come with me wherever I go.”
This is a catnapping, and we both know it, Bizzy. Fish glances down at her paw as her claws come out one by one. You and I both know I’d rather be napping in the traditional sense. But I’m used to it by now.
I shoot her a look that says, you’re hilarious, before glancing down at baby Ella, who’s nursing contentedly while I sit across from a woman who might have committed murder less than twenty-four hours ago.
The tea room is decorated with such care and attention to detail that it’s almost heartbreaking—like someone trying desperately to create the perfect Christmas moment.
Time to see if this sweet Southern belle’s charm can stand up to some pointed questions about dead chocolate magnates and missing cats.
After all, nothing says holiday spirit quite like a little suspect interrogation with your afternoon nursing session.